


Little Deaths

by ellipsometry



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/F, a pseudo coming of age story, sex is a legitimate motif right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 17:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13663401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: “I love you too,” Miki says, quiet and deliberate.  Miko wears those words like armor, relishing the power they hold, whispered by a woman who has always seemed otherworldly, like she lived somewhere between Heaven and Earth.  But no matter her power, Miko thinks, Miki is no God.Because Miki loves her.  And God would never be so kind.





	Little Deaths

Kuroda Miki is the world’s angriest virgin.

Not angry about the lack of orgasms, per se – her fingers work perfectly well, thank you very much – but angry about the _spectacle_ of it all.  It’s such a tired performance: the girls in her class, marching into homeroom in the morning after a night with their boyfriends, faux demure looks on their faces.  They’ll wait half a millisecond before some other girl hisses _how was it, how was it?_ and then they’ll break like a dam, waxing poetic about how _beautiful_ and _intimate_ it was.

Fucking doubt it, Miko thinks.  Teenage boys are gross and clumsy and perverted, clueless to the core with no hope that that doesn't extend to the bedroom.  There’s nothing alluring or intimate about a high school boy poking and prodding at you like a science experiment, then laying on top you and thrashing about like a horny blanket.

“What about you, Miki?”

“Oh, no comment,” Miki demures, because Makimura Miki is always demure.  She laughs, swinging her legs where she's sitting on one of the empty desks as their group eats lunch, and Miko swats her leg with a smile.

“How responsible of you,” she jokes.

Miki sticks her tongue out at Miko, then drops her shoulders, “I dunno.  I haven’t— whatever.  I haven’t found anyone special yet.  I think I’m going to wait.”

That is how Miko learns that Makimura Miki, shining star of the wet dreams of hundreds of high school boys, is a certified, bonafied virgin. Miko had always assumed Miki was, well, _experienced._   How couldn’t she be, as someone so universally desired?

They’re both virgins, after all.  That almost makes Miko’s blood boil more.

“I think I like older guys, anyway,” Miki decides, and a few of their friends chime in in agreement.

One of their friends lowers her voice conspiratorially, “I hooked up with a college guy once, and he went, you know, _down_.”

They titter excitedly, save for Miko, who’s mentally checked out of the conversation.  But even Miki blushes a bit, muttering a quiet _that sounds nice._

Whatever.  Who cares.  Miko definitely doesn’t, and she definitely doesn’t walk home and crawl immediately into bed, rubbing herself until her fingers are wet and pruny, and she definitely doesn’t fall asleep dreaming of round, green eyes and a hot tongue between her legs.

 

+

 

The worst thing about becoming a devilman is that everything around Miko seems to be the same, even when everything about her has changed, down to her very DNA.

Boys at school used to ignore her because she was too plain; now they ignore her because she’s too intimidating.  Girls at school used to talk behind her back about how she was boring; now they talk behind her back about how she’s stuck up and scary.  Akira approaches Miko with reproach, but he’s a crybaby till the end, gentle and gooey under that new demon shell.  Miko finds she can prod and poke at him just like always.  This, too, is the same as ever, but in a comforting way.

And Miki still treats Miko the same, still looks up at her with those preternaturally kind eyes, corners of her eyelids crinkled from a perpetual smile.  But Miko doesn’t want kindness from Miki – she wants a _reaction_.

Maybe it’s for the best.  After all, Mayuta was the last person Miko got a reaction out of, and she had to go and kill him.

She hadn’t _meant_ to, hadn’t tried to cut off his air supply as they fucked haphazardly in her bedroom after the rave.  It was already a miracle, frankly, that they made it back to her place at all, Miko retching up a cocktail of alcohol and drugs as Mayuta dragged her, cradling her head against the hollow of his shoulder, the devil quite literally raging inside her, remodeling her body like it was a cheap apartment.  Mayuta hadn’t seemed to mind the babbling and growling coming from Miko’s frothing mouth; he had held her, wiped the sweat from her brow with a kindness she suspected not even his closest friends knew he was capable of.  He was sweet, and Miko was _hungry_.

Something inside her had been broken, shattered and pasted back together with the pieces all wrong.  But by the time she realized it, Miko was riding Mayuta into the futon, claws curled around his neck, poking holes in his esophagus and squeezing the last bit of air from his windpipe.  He came inside her, but he was already dead.

Hell of a way to lose your virginity.

 

+

 

Koda is different than Miko imagined he’d be, more earnest and genuine than the elite, aloof athlete he had been portrayed as in the media. They race around the rooftops that make up the edges of his confinement.  Three, five, seven races in a row, pushing their new endurance and speed to the limit.  No matter how many times Miko wins, Koda will demand one more race, even as he’s red-faced and dry heaving over the edge of the building.

“Fine, one more,” Miko says, taking a long swig of her Pocari, “But if I win, we have sex.”

“... What?”

It’s a bet meant to deter him, because anyone with eyes and half a brain cell can see that Koda has no Earthly or Heavenly attraction to women.  Miko shrugs, “You have your way of letting off steam, I have mine.”  She fully expects Koda to refuse, but he just shrugs back, crouching down into his starting line stance.

So, they have one more race, and Miko notches one more victory in her belt.  She thinks, briefly, about letting Koda win.  But the demon she merged with must be even more competitive than she is, because Miko feels an unnatural spring in her step as they round the last corner toward their artificial finish line, and she bounds more than fifty meters in a single leap, finishing a full thirty seconds before Koda.

“You’re an idiot,” Miko says, tossing a water bottle at Koda as he grimaces across the finish line, “Forget about our bet.”

“Wait,” Koda snatches Miko’s wrist as she turns to leave, and Miko marvels at the unexpected tremor in his fingertips, the insistent way he bites his nails into the flesh of her forearm, “I want to.”

But Koda doesn’t really want to have sex with her, Miko knows that.  What Koda wants is a nice, tight hole to ease his dick into, a point of contact so intimate it’s undeniable, something tethering him to another person, something proving that he exists.  What Koda wants is someone to lay him down on the scratchy sheets of his stolen mattress and take him apart, finger by finger, inch by inch, until his face is dripping with sweat and drool, ass dripping with lube, dick hanging heavy and swollen between his legs, leaking precome into a lover’s hands.  Koda wants to lose himself without losing himself.

Sex is the point between demon and human, the middle of the Venn diagram that Koda clings to like a life raft.  Not for the first time, Miko looks at him and feels uncomfortably like she’s looking into a mirror.

But Miko indulges him, because she’s always been kind like that.  She presses his face into the mattress, leaving him blind and whimpering as she runs a palm over the weeping head of his cock, opening his ass with her tongue first and then her fingers, milking him through three orgasms in a row until he finally taps out, hoarse from yelling and covered in his own release.

Koda’s not a bad guy, Miko decides.  He would have been a good lover, to whomever he was in love with.

Later, when Koda joins the demons, Miko will even feel sorry for him.  He tottered for so long on such a thin line.  Miko wonders if she would have made the same choice, if she would have been as broken if Miki had been the one to die instead of Junichi.   _There but for the grace of God,_ she thinks, and then takes it back.

For now, Miko washes her hands and tosses a wet towel at Koda, where he lays spent on the futon.

“I win again.”

 

+

 

Miki says _I know_ , and Miko crumbles against her like wet paper, crying and wailing like a lost child.

“Oh— don’t, don’t cry,” Miki is crying too, and kind of laughing, pulling Miko close, nestling into the crook of her shoulder.  The shock of hot, wet tears and soft lips against bare skin is enough to nearly pull Miko out of her own body.

Their first kiss is wet and searching, and Miki kisses the tear tracks down Miko’s cheeks, before devouring her mouth like a drowning man in need of oxygen.  All Miko can taste is salt, and then that gives way to the wax of Miki’s chapstick, and then that gives way to something else entirely, a taste nameless and achingly familiar.  She realizes, duly, that this is her first real kiss.

“Me too,” Miki whispers, pulling back just a millimeter, so that her lips still brush against Miko’s as she talks, “It’s my first kiss too.”

“I—” Miko laughs, pressing her forehead against Miki’s, not realizing she'd been speaking out loud, “I barely believe that.  The great Makimura Miki?  A kiss virgin?”

“I’m also a _virgin_ virgin,” Miki says, and she laughs again, something genuine and light and very out of place considering the circumstances of the past few days.  Ordinarily, Miko would scold her for taking the situation so lightly; Miko was always the overly serious one, the one taking extra precautions and planning for every contingency.  Miko was the one who watered the flowers; Miki was the one who’d pluck them and stick them in her hair.

Maybe fusing with a demon had helped Miko break down all those meticulously-built walls.  Or maybe the adrenaline of impending death was messing with her head.

“We can change that,” Miko leads Miki to the small bed in the corner of the room, “We have time.”

They don’t.  Have time, that is.  But it’s a lie they both subscribe to, the illusion that just because time seems to stand for them, it must stand still outside of this room as well.  They don’t have time, but Miko makes time anyway, makes quick business of peppering kisses on every exposed bit of Miki’s skin.  She laughs at first, giggles as Miko presses soft, insistent lips against her temple, her collarbone, her bicep. Miko unwraps Miki’s body like a present, running hands up her defined abs, and down to the soft space where her legs meet her torso.

Miki’s wearing what might be the plainest, most nondescript pair of underwear.  They’re white bikini briefs, and the elastic is a bit frayed, like they probably should have been thrown out already.  Miko is helplessly charmed.

“Cute panties.”

“Don’t lie,” Miki laughs, but the air gets punched out of her lungs when Miko runs her middle finger down the mound of her panties, down to where Miki’s arousal is already creating a wet spot. Miki’s hips punch up just a centimeter, searching for Miko’s hand.  Miko pulls away before Miki can grind against her fingers, and is rewarded with a long, drawn-out whine from Miki, who covers her red face with her arm.

If she had time, Miko would want nothing more than to tease Miki like this for hours.  What a better use of her time it would be, rather than pining and grinding her teeth in misplaced jealousy.  It’s almost tragic how many lazy afternoons Miko wasted when she could have been laying Miki out, torturing her with the softest touches and whispers of pleasure.

Miko can feel the soft hum of Miki’s heartbeat as she palms her breasts, the nervous twitch as Miko kisses Miki’s thighs, slowly and luxuriously, like they have all the time in the world.  There’s a bit of hesitation in the way Miki’s voice hitches when Miko reaches to pull down her panties, but it passes in a second.  Once they’re off, Miki spreads her legs, wanton, hooking an ankle around Miko’s waist to pull her closer.

Miko hardly needs an invitation.  She takes a second to admire Miki – wet, pink, dusted with curly brown hair all over – before diving in, licking a stripe down and up her folds, pausing at her clit and relishing Miki’s pleased, breathy sighs.

“You feel so good— _ah!”_ Miki can hardly get the words out before Miko slides two fingers inside her, and they go in so, _so_ easy, aided by Miki’s slickness and the tilt of her hips.

Miko marvels at her, “You’re so soft,” she whispers, voice husky with her own arousal, and Miko tips her own hips down, grinding against the corner of the mattress, at the same time that Miki twitches her hips up, rubbing against Miko’s hand in earnest.

It’s sensual but clumsy, the way Miko curls a tongue around Miki’s entrance, her own two fingers still inside, curling _just so_ to hit the spot that makes Miki whine so deliciously.  Miki rolls her hips down, and down, and down, until she’s humping Miko’s fingers, riding her tongue.  And Miko just lets Miki use her; it feels right, like something has come full circle.  What that is, Miko’s not sure, but it makes her ache in ways she never thought possible.

Miki, so outgoing in life, is quiet in bed as she comes, mouth open, tears beading in her eyes.  She gasps and goes deathly still, before jerking violently against Miko’s fingers.  Miko doesn’t let up until Miki is completely wrung out, lapping at her clit until Miki is sobbing, gripping Miko’s hair with white knuckles.

“You’re so— you’re incredible,” Miko whispers, repeating small praises as she finally relents, kissing the insides of Miki’s thighs.

“I should say that to you,” Miki murmurs, reaching down to slip a finger through her own wetness, bringing it to her lips and tasting herself, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world to do.

That does it.  There’s barely a beat before Miko strips herself of her own underwear, climbing further up on the bed and straddling Miki, arousal dripping and slicking the surface of Miki’s thigh. Miko grinds down with a pleased sigh, and the defined muscle of Miki’s leg, built up from years and years of track, flexes under Miko’s wet cunt, hitting just the right spot as Miko bucks her hips with abandon, head bowed, biting her lip so hard she tastes blood.

With the most delicate touch, Miki reaches out to place her finger under Miko’s chin, tipping her head up to capture her lips in a kiss. It’s chaste, just Miki’s lips brushing over hers, feather-light, but it’s enough to send her over the edge. Miko shudders and comes, head tipping back toward the ceiling, mouth dropped open in a silent prayer.  It’s the most human she’s felt in ages.

There’s a soft hissing sound in Miko’s ear as she comes down from her high, and it takes a second for her to realize it’s Miki, _sshh_ ing her in a low, comforting voice, rubbing her palms up and down Miko’s shaking thighs.  Miko has the wherewithal to press one small kiss to Miki’s forehead before collapsing on top of her, limbs hot and tangled on the small twin mattress.

Miko’s bangs have come loose from her ponytail and lay flat, sweat plastered to her forehead.  Miki arcs a hand out to wipe the hair out of Miko’s eyes, and that touch, more so than any of the others they’ve shared in the last few minutes, stretches out for an eternity. The pads of Miki’s fingertips, cool against Miko’s fevered forehead, feel like a first date, a long walk home, a wedding vow.

“I love you,” Miko mumbles, and Miki runs a thumb down her face, cupping Miko’s chin in a way that’s sensual, motherly, and patronizing all at once.  And, in turn, Miko tilts her head against Miki’s hand, exposing the vulnerable white of her nape, looking up at Miki like she would a lover, or a mother, or a God.

But Miki isn’t a God, even if her presence seems to stop time, feathering the world around Miko until there is only this: the point where they meet, running in parallel for so long, colliding in a point of contact so intimate in its weariness that everything else seems to fade away.

“I love you too,” Miki says, quiet and deliberate.  Miko wears those words like armor, relishing the power they hold, whispered by a woman who has always seemed otherworldly, like she lived somewhere between Heaven and Earth.  But no matter her power, Miko thinks, Miki is no God.

Because Miki loves her.  And God would never be so kind.

 

+

 

Lunchtime practices are a pain.  Coach is relentless, Miki is unbearably upbeat, and there’s still after-school practice on the horizon.  Miko is tired, sweaty, and miserable.

“Your personal best was even better today!” Miki cheers as Miko passes the finish line for her final dash of the day, passing her a towel and a Pocari.  Neither of them mentions that Miko’s best time still isn’t fast enough to beat Miki.

“I’m beat,” Miko groans, “Are all the showers taken?”

A nod, “For now.  But the weather is nice, so I thought I’d stay out anyway.”  Miki twirls, arms outstretched, face to the sun.  This is the Miki that Miko hates, and that she loves: still so full of energy after a tiring practice, still so beautiful despite being caked in sweat and dirt, still so in love with the world despite the ugliness it holds.

Sometimes – not always, but just sometimes – Miko indulges her.  Sometimes Miko turns off the part of her brain that won’t stop scanning and judging and calculating and just lets herself be led by the hand.  Today, that means letting Miki pull her down to lay on the grass of the school field, soft and a bit damp from the humid air.  The sun is hot, but still feels cool compared to iron-hot grip of Miki’s fingers around her wrist.

“Let’s stay out here for the rest of the day,” Miki mumbles.

“We can’t,” Miko responds, reflexive, before conceding, “But it would be nice.”

It would be nice, even though there is homework to be done and classes to be attended, even though Miko’s forgotten sunscreen and the sun is sure to burn her, even though every moment Miko spends enjoying Miki’s company is another moment spent in her shadow.  But it would be nice, to forget all that and just bask for a while.  Miko sighs, tilting her head toward the sky and letting her fingers lace with Miki’s.

And she burns, and burns, and burns.

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo you can talk to me at [@ellipsometry_](http://www.twitter.com/ellipsometry_)


End file.
